The Reign of Carolina
by S. Place
Summary: When Carolina is sent away from her dilapidated island nation to the heart of French court in the name of diplomacy, she must find a way to claim power from her father and save her people-and herself. Rewrite of a story I wrote many, many moons ago called Sweet Caroline.


This is a rewrite of an older fanfic of mine from 2015-ish. If you're new to this, hey! If you're an old follower coming from way over there, welcome back! Anyways, hope everyone enjoys and I plan to update every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Keep me honest and leave a review to let me know how you feel. Apologies to anyone who caught this chapter when I was having weird formatting issues and it just was reading as a bunch of code.

Chapter 1: Gray or Gold?

A gray dress lay on Carolina's bed. The bedposts rise nearly to the ceiling, molded from the ash-toned wood of a poplar tree with golden inlays in various shapes. Once miraculous, the wood has deteriorated and the gold has faded to reveal the truth: more wood, polished and painted to fool the eye. The golden wood flakes off in places, giving a shabby look to the entire room. The far wall is set with a tall bay window with diamond-shaped panes. Surrounding the window are empty shelves, save three leather-bound journals on the uppermost shelf and a small rooster statuette positioned near it. A tall wardrobe stands opposite the bed, empty and with the door ajar. By the room's entrance, there is a vanity with a small circular mirror, which has cracked at the bottom. It seems obvious the room has been left unkempt for some time, cleaned in a rush by servants probably moments before Carolina's arrival. There is a knock on the door.

"Miss?" asks a faint voice on the other side.

"Enter, please," Carolina stands and straightens out her skirt with her hands. The door opens to reveal a girl, small in stature and underfed. She wears a faded olive dress, meant to meet the ankles but just barely dragging the floor behind her. A freshly starched white apron is tied at her waist, and her dull red hair is pulled back into a braided bun with an almost-matching white linen cap tucked into it. She curtsies to the princess.

"Your Highness," the girl waivers, unsure of herself, and sets a small-ish box on the edge of the vanity. Slouching, she looks at the floor in front of Carolina, but never directly at her. "I've been sent to help you dress, ma'am."

"Please, my name is Carolina," she tries to make the girl more comfortable and reaches out a hand. The servant looks at the princess's outstretched palm, puzzled. She raises her own hand toward Carolina's. They never touch.

The rooster statuette clatters to the floor across the room. The servant scurries to pick it up.

"The draft through these windows picks up this time of year," the girl announces in a tone barely louder than a whisper. She walks to the end of the bed. Carolina is startled when she yelps after accidently stubbing her toes on the three-high stack of trunks containing Carolina's clothes for the season. The highest one falls onto the floor, spilling the gowns inside. The servant girl whimpers and drops to the ground, trying to collect them. "Oh, Lady, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't see these trunks, I'm so foolish, please forgive me-" she continues her string of apologies, while Carolina stands quietly for a moment. Finally, the princess meets the girl where she is, and kneels next to her. In silence, the two do their best to stuff the dresses back into the faded trunk, which now sports a busted iron latch. They stand and Carolina steadies the servant at the shoulders.

"Are you alright?" she asks the servant, who stammers out a weak "yes ma'am."

"May I be excused, Princess Carolina?"

"Of course," Carolina responds, defeated by her inability to comfort the girl. The servant curtsies again and turns to the large wooden door. She looks even smaller than when she entered. Carolina sighs.

The gray dress is beautiful, if not overly traditional. The neckline rises to mid-chest and has a faint line of golden detail. Beyond that, a white collar comes to the neck and flows into puffed gray sleeves. A few inches down the upper arm, the sleeve tightens to the wrist and ends in a small ruffle. The skirt flows outward at the hips to the floor, the same gray as the bodice and sleeves. Carolina strokes the skirt with her hand and begins to lift it, when a shine catches her eye from within the wardrobe.

Upon investigation of the inside of the wardrobe, she finds a dress of silken gold. The bodice is detailed with dyed lace, which grows up to the neck and down the arms forming sleeves. The lace stretches in varied lengths down the shining gold skirt, which emerges into a beautiful court train. Carolina is mesmerized and strokes the skirt, just as she did the gray dress and is shocked by the difference. The golden dress shoots electricity through her hand, through her entire body. She questions herself, "who does this belong to?" "Who would have left such a beautiful gown behind?" She pulls the gown from the wardrobe, and it's so heavy she almost drops it. Carolina waddles, the dress pressed against her chest, back to the bed in the center of the room to display it next to her gray gown. She stands back from the two and looks back and forth between them.

Desperately, _desperately_, Carolina wants to wear the golden gown. She worries, though, what if the true owner were to catch her in their gown? Not to mention what her mother and father would think. Noticing the hand-lain lace and feeling it under her fingers, she feels the gray dress with her other hand. "I have other gowns, and there's nothing wrong with the gray..." she thinks, unsure of how she will choose. She puzzles for several minutes.

"I'll wear what I please," she announces, matter-of-factly to her empty room.

* * *

Dressed, Carolina sits at the vanity and finishes brushing out her honey-colored hair. She allows the waves to flow freely down her back and puts on the hairpiece she discovered in the box the servant girl left. Sent from Italy, the note on the box reads:

"Princess Carolina,

Please accept this gift from the royal family of France. It is from the Queen Mother Elizabeth's personal collection. We look very forward to meeting you, cousin.

Queen Mary"

Containing pearls and small jewels set into a netting that sits on the top and back of her hair, the headpiece is beautiful. Carolina has heard of the Queen Mother-and did not expect a gift from her. She clips a set of pearls onto her lobes and slides on a matching gold and pearl ring. She steps into a pair of slightly-heeled slippers just as her door is pushed open to reveal her half-brother, James.

James is 18, two years younger than Carolina. He stands a full head taller than her and was graced by the gods with a mess of blond curls cascading past his ears. His muscled form is currently hidden under too many stuffy layers, far different from his usual light clothing. He extends an arm to her.

"You look foolish in such clothing, James," Carolina tells her brother.

"You look _boring_in such clothing, Carolina," he mocks, "honestly, who picks these drab gowns out for you?"

"My mother, who else?" she chuckles. Carolina turns to see the golden dress, hanging back in its original position in the wardrobe and sighs. She rests a hand on her brother's arm and they step past her door, James closing it behind them. "I didn't know you were going to the ball."

"Your mother absolutely insisted that if I were to accompany you to France, I must make myself useful. So, I am your assigned personal guard for the remainder of your stay," he bows in jest and tips his invisible hat to Carolina, eliciting a giggle from the princess. "Here to help you find a husband, of course."

"James, stop it, you know that's not why we're here."

"Honestly, Carolina, why do you think we are, then?"

"_Diplomacy_, James!" she rolls her eyes. She hears music in the distance.

"You do understand the typical role of a woman in diplomacy, yes?" Carolina doesn't respond. They silently descend down several spiral staircases and through what she thinks must be hundreds of hallways. The difference is stark once they leave the eastern wing-suddenly the décor is vibrant and no expense has been spared to impress guests.

"Don't you love that they've buried us in the forgotten wing?" Carolina breaks the silent tension.

"Forgotten wing for the princess of a forgotten country," James responds, suddenly sullen. The music grows louder.

"Nobody has forgotten us, James..." she trails off and they share a knowing glance. Yes, they have.

James and Carolina arrive at the source of the music, now roaring through the halls. It comes from the throne room, where throngs of subjects-French and foreign-dance, eat, drink, mingle. The room is filled with greenery and flowers; candles burn seemingly every few feet. Several tables line a side wall and are stacked high with pastries and finger-sized foods. At the very center stands a cake stacked five tiers high and decorated in a similar manner to the rest of the room. Farthest from the entrance are two tall thrones: in one sits a man, King Francis, and the other is empty. The King smiles as he settles his gaze on his wife, who dances merrily near the center of the room with three other women.

"Ready?" James smiles to Carolina.

"As ready as ever."


End file.
